Some dreams don’t show up loudly.
They whisper.
Mine started when I was eight years old — sitting on the floor with crayons, loose paper, and a wild imagination.
Before I ever knew what an author really was…
I already was one.
I wrote stories about dogs going on adventures. Mysteries inside haunted houses. Little worlds only I understood.
I stapled pages together. Taped cardboard to the front. Made my own “hardcover” books like they belonged on a library shelf. Recently — years later — I found one of them. A tiny, handmade book. Crooked edges. Thick glue. My messy handwriting.
But when I held it, I realized something that made me smile:
😊 That little girl wasn’t pretending. She was practicing.
The moment someone else saw it too
When I was in first grade at Pound Ridge Elementary School, my teacher, Ms. Conrad, told my parents:
“She’s going to be a writer someday.”
It’s funny how teachers see things we don’t yet recognize in ourselves.
At the time, though? I didn’t even like writing for school. Essays. Prompts. Grammar worksheets. No thanks.
But writing for fun? I could do that for hours. Because it wasn’t homework — it was freedom.
The quiet conflict
Growing up in a traditional Indian household, writing didn’t exactly show up on the “career options” list.
Doctor. Engineer. Something “stable.”
Writer? That sounded like a hobby, not a future. So like many kids, I tucked that dream away. Not because it disappeared — but because it didn’t feel practical. Still… writing and stories never left me. They followed me around like loyal little puppies.
Patiently waiting… Becoming my own version of myself. Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking:
“Is this realistic?”
And started asking:
“What feels true to me?”
That question changed everything. Because the truth was simple: I didn’t want to just read stories. I wanted to create them. I wanted kids to feel what I felt when I escaped into imagination. I wanted to build worlds that felt safe, magical, and full of heart.
So I broke the quiet cycle of “shoulds.” And I chose me.
The surreal moment
Then one day… it happened. (I’m so grateful my heart and supportive friends helped me make it happen! 🥰🤗)
My children’s book arrived. A real book.
Printed. Bound. Professional. Mine.
Not construction paper. Not tape. Not staples. A real, hold-it-in-your-hands book. When I held it, time did something strange.
I was eight years old again. Sitting on the floor. Writing about dogs and haunted houses. Only this time… the dream wasn’t pretend anymore.
It was real! 🤭
And honestly?
It felt surreal. Like I might wake up. Because sometimes dreams don’t explode into your life. They quietly grow with you until one day you realize:
✨You’ve already become the person you used to imagine.✨
What I’ve learned about dreams
Here’s what childhood dreams taught me:
✨ The things you do “just for fun” often point to who you really are
✨ Passion shows up before permission
✨ You don’t have to follow the script you were handed
✨ It’s never too late to circle back to the kid you used to be
And maybe most importantly:
💖 The dream doesn’t leave you. It just waits for you to come back.
To anyone sitting on a quiet dream…
If there’s something you loved as a kid — drawing, writing, painting, building, singing — and you quietly set it aside because life said “be practical”…
Maybe it’s not gone. Maybe it’s just waiting. Waiting for you to choose your own version of yourself.
Because if an 8 year old girl with crayons and cardboard could grow up to hold her own published children’s book… 🤩
Trust me.
Your dream is possible too.
And it might be closer than you think. 💛
If this story touched you and you’d like to support my journey, you can find my children’s book here. I hope it brings as much joy to your home as it brought to my heart while creating it. 💛
Naturally Lefty 
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